


From the Ward

by alivehawk1701



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24927301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivehawk1701/pseuds/alivehawk1701
Summary: Set after the events of Christmas Eve (Series 3) House is forced to be honest about his longtime feelings for Wilson, while detoxing, but just how will Wilson respond?
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	From the Ward

“Good morning everyone.”

Various voices in varying degrees of half-heartedness returned the greeting, lapsing quickly back into silence. The guy next to me just lip-synced.

“Why don’t we start off like usual and go around the circle and tell the group how we’re feeling today.”

Her name was Dr. Fox but as far as I could tell there was nothing foxy about her. She has the reputation of being the most dedicated, generous counselor in the ward. Except her reputation has, for the most part, only been established by other doctors and any of her patients dumb enough to form that special, completely factory-made bond between doctor and patient, right up to that big moment when she gives them a big hug at discharge, the same she’s given a thousand times before and says through a saccharine, artifical smile “I hope I never see you again”.

She might act like every pathetic rehab-patient’s savior angel but I know that when she leaves at the end of the day, as in being able to open the door and walk out, she breathes a heavy sigh of relief. Just like anyone else would. And judging from the nicotine stains on her fingers she probably gets only six feet before lighting up. She’s no different than the other doctors who hate this place, hate us—she’s just the better actor. It’s hard to put your healing into someone’s hands when they’re made of cardboard and macaroni noodles.

“And remember,” Dr. Fox continued, brushing a lock of dyed red hair from her caring eyes, “’I’m fine’ isn’t an answer.”

Adjective restriction. Wrong on so many levels. There are eight of us in the circle. Actually, it was more of an oval, or maybe like an ameba, several people had pushed their chairs either in or out, breaking up the circle.

We started around the ameba-circle after about forty seconds of silent no-volunteer waiting. One of the idiots finally raised their hand and started.

“I’m not doing so well,” was his answer. The perfect vague answer that would cost us ten minutes of “what does that mean” and “tell me more about that”.

Bad part is that when I have to just sit here, bored out of my skull, it’s harder to ignore that I’m shaking. I don’t think I could even hold a pen if I wanted to. Not that I feel like sharing my inability to write with the group. As earth shattering as it is. Emotional support wouldn’t stop this. I know exactly what would stop this. I know what will take away the pain, the shaking, all of it. Nights are bad. Laying there on the spring-less mattress, staring at the ceiling, with nothing to do but concentrate on stopping yourself from screaming in pain.

The moron with the vague answer had stopped talking, bowing his head submissively. We moved on with various answers such as, “I’m tired” “I’m depressed” “I’m angry” “I’m hungry” and my personal favorite, “I want to kill you”

Glancing around the circle I saw what were close to a few nods of agreement to that answer.

“Greg,” Dr. Fox said and I looked up from my hands, “Your turn. How are you feeling this morning?”

“I feel great.”

“You feel great.”

“I just said that.”

“Everyone else in the group has admitted they have a problem, Greg—they’ve made progress.”

“My only problem is being locked in here—but then, it was this or prison.”

“You don’t have a problem?”

“Not except for you.”

“What about what brought you here,” she said in almost a sing-song voice, She was referring to the have-yourself-a-miserable-little-christmas incident, “Let’s talk about that.”

She stared at me. That tactic wouldn’t work with me, neither would the bitchy woman angle, so I stared back. She was like a worm, burrowing into the weakest point and crawling around, making itself at home by consuming dead flesh.

“Nothing to talk about.”

“What were you feeling that night?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why?”

“Because nothing happened.”

“Do you like Christmas, Greg?”

“Nope.”

“Because?”

“Because apart from the surge in electric bills and time off work it’s just another day on the calendar.”

“You don’t believe in good-will toward men and peace on earth?”

“What does that have to do with Christmas?”

“Christmas is at least a time to spend with your loved-ones, you  _ do _ agree with that don’t you?”

She was trying again. Trying to find another weak spot.

“Was there anyone for you to spend Christmas Eve with?” she continued, face switching into something like a sympathetic expression, lower lip pouting a little as she gave a slow shake of the head, “There wasn’t, was there?”

“There  _ was _ ,” I said, defending myself.

“But you went home alone that night,” her confident tone tore into me. 

“I wasn’t in a celebrating mood. I was tired from saving yet another patient from certain death, takes a lot out of a person.”

“I think you, and everyone else here knows, that a person . . .” she paused, letting the silence strain between words, “Can only take so much.”

“Not me.”

“But those around you? You were hurting them, weren’t you?”

“I never asked them to do anything for me.”

“Because you wanted to suffer alone.”

“Because I didn’t need their help.”

She paused, switching gears again, allowing me to truly question her counseling abilities. Always leading the witness, interjecting whatever chapter header she was writing for her no-doubt-to-be-best-seller, “And now?” she asked, folding her hands on top of the clipboard in her lap, “It sure looks like you’re detoxing.”

I clasped my hands together, hoping my shoulders shaking wasn’t obvious, biting at my lower lip.

“Let’s get back to Christmas Eve,” she persisted, I sighed impatiently, running a hand across my rough face, “You say you feel great. I don’t think that’s true, Greg. I think you felt bad enough to do something about it.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You stole the oxycodone.”

My hands moved to my upper arms, holding them still, “I needed them.”

“Then you went home—”

“After solving the case!”

“You went home on Christmas Eve and then what happened?” she asked, “You had no one to go home to, no Christmas to look forward to—you only had the pills. What did you do when you got back home, Greg?”

“I  _ took _ them,” I said angrily.

“You took all of them.”

“They’d taken my Vicodin away!” I realized I was almost yelling. She was going about this all wrong. She was trying to get me mad so I’d admit something. Good luck with that doctor, you can forget about it. “I’d just spent two days detoxing.”

“So once you had the pills you were happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“So it was Christmas Eve, you went home, took the rest of the pills, and then what?”

“You know what happened—I had a drink, didn’t mix well with the pills, and that’s it.”

“Greg,” she said, “I don’t think that you, as a doctor, didn’t know what taking a whole bottle of pills then drinking half a bottle of scotch would do.” Her eyes held a satisfied air as she leveled them with mine, satisfied because I had nothing, couldn’t think of anything, to say to that. She didn’t want a response. She just wanted to scare me.

I’d said I didn’t remember a lot of what happened that night. I was lying. I remember everything that happened. I’d known what I was doing. And why. The last few months were a sort of slow motion spiral, an uncontrollable downwards descent and every choice I’d made, every angry, bitter choice, drew me down faster. The meger things I’d held of value, the few things, the few people, or person, that mattered, were gone. And I didn’t care. They were better off without me. 

So yeah, I remember. I remember trying to stop myself from puking, trying to force my body to keep the pills down but failing, eventually puking and not being able to stop myself. I remember lying on the floor, not able to move, brain caught in an ugly cycle starting with when I’d first met Stacy and I’d thought I could have the Polaroid dreamhouse life right up till when Wilson had shouted at me to get out and I’d just left, no intention of fighting for him because what would be the point and I’d downed the last of the scotch.

And then it was just random, totally unrelated memories in between. I remembered the time Stacy and I had gone upstate to meet her parents and I’d fallen in the water trying to help with the sails in her father’s boat. A rope had caught around my ankle and I couldn’t get back to the surface. Didn’t matter how much I kicked, it wouldn’t come off. By the time I had started to panic my hands were already numb from the icy water and couldn’t untangle the rope to free myself. Stacy had jumped in after me. Saved me.

And then I remembered years ago, during the start of Wilson’s second marriage when he and I were working on building a deck out back of their new house. Bonnie had entrusted it to us, though in a non-joking way had accused us as “no where near handymen” because we were doctors, not carpenters. Wilson said it was easy, we could figure it out together. Bonnie had latched herself onto him, arms wrapped around his neck, his bare arms around her waist, and kissed him for luck, she said. I remember standing there, hands resting on a piece of wood laid out on a saw-horse, trying not to watch them. She had been leaving for a weekend at her sisters whose husband was an alcoholic, sort of a support thing. She’d be gone for two days. Just me and Wilson, wearing jeans and a layer of dirt and grime, getting sun-burnt and sore, working all day then going in to drink beer and relax without Bonnie around to bother us. I’d been glad to have him for myself. Bonnie was fine. Nice enough person. Just not good enough for Wilson. He wasn’t him when she was around. He was who she wanted him to be. Which made me miss him. He’s not like that around me. He’s just himself. And not to mention he had looked way too attractive with a hammer and a tool belt on, it all seemed too much to handle. But I didn’t do anything. Not that time.

The first time we kissed was on the fourth of July. With Bonnie of course and some of her family, some of Wilson’s, watching fireworks. Everyone else had turned in, some kids were there, had to get to bed, Bonnie and everyone else helped. Drinking, too much drinking maybe. Blanket spread on the ground, a blanket that not twenty minutes ago Bonnie and her sister’s kids had sat and watched all the explosions and pretty colours. We were lying in the dark, on our backs, staring up into the sky. He’d told me they were fighting. I told him no duh. It would have been impossible not to feel the tension between them back then. Told me he was upset. Stray, far-away fireworks coloured themselves across the dark sky over maybe fifteen minutes of silence. Hand found his, my fingers tracing the lines of veins on his hands. He’d said he felt helpless, worn out, not good enough, like that was possible. She wanted too much from him. He smelled like grass and sun and beer. Called himself stupid, hand suddenly wrapping around mine. I’d been so amazed he’d look for, and would find comfort in me. Didn’t know I could be that for someone. Somehow, don’t know how, we’d moved closer to each other, me sort of leaning over him. Wilson’s wide brown eyes staring up at me. It was all dark and quiet as I, or we, kissed each other, too suddenly for either of us, clumsy lips meeting, wet and desperate, needy, hands gripping clothes, dragging each other closer. Typical fourth of July, hate fourth of July, hot-dogs and potato salad, only this time Wilson and I were kissing on a quilt in the backyard. Sound of the screen door slamming shut stopped us. And we didn’t talk about it. What it meant. Not the next day. Not ever.

The second time we’d kissed was after I’d told him about the job at Princeton. We went to a small hole in the wall bar to celebrate New Years. He was excited and happy, full of effortless smiles and easy laughs, he was always goofy when he drank champagne. Someone had let loose confetti when the clock struck midnight. It clung to his shirt and flecks of it shined on his cheeks and in his hair as the bar exploded with laughter and cheering. He’d smiled and said “everythings going to be different now”, and in the back of the bar, unnoticed because everyone else was, he kissed me, said “happy new years house” and kissed me again. Auld Lang Syne played from tinny speakers and because it felt good, felt wonderful, we didn’t stop, caught up in the moment. He smiled as he kissed me and I’d kept my eyes open, like I had to make sure it was real, only closing them when the kiss deepened. When the song stopped he’d backed away, taking his hands from my legs and glancing anxiously at the other people in the bar, the moment gone, my lips swollen, heart racing as he finished his champagne. That night when he’d dropped me off I’d asked him to come upstairs, not even sure what I was asking, but he said no. Again, we didn’t talk about it.

Then I remembered after the infarction, after Stacy had left and I hated her and I hated my leg and I hated my life. Back when one Vicodin was enough to feel high for hours. When I’d spent over two weeks not leaving my apartment. Stacy didn’t call. No surprise there. Wilson came over though. Found me amongst the empty peanut butter jars and a more than fairly substantial mess. He changed my bandages. Helped me to bed. We watched movies on the couch and his head would rest on my shoulder. Stayed with me for almost five weeks.

“You tried to kill yourself,” Dr. Fox said, her voice echoing in my ears, “You don’t feel great.”

“You know,” I said after a while, licking my lips slowly, fingers laced together between my knees, “You’re a lousy counselor,” I looked up at her, “Putting words into people’s mouths doesn’t constitute sorting through the issues, it means you're correlating evidence into whatever theory fits yours the most. Maybe it makes sense for everyone else here, psycho-babble sells, stamping meaning onto whatever addiction they have, but I’m not comforted by you, or anyone’s, ability to make judgments and assumptions concerning my personal life. Especially when it's just so that I can go through a program that’s only guarantee is that there’ll be another bed free for whatever loser comes after me once I’m out of here,”

She eyed me with growing contempt, “Does this mean you’ve accepted living is better than dying?” she asked, “Are you less lonely, less depressed, than you were before?” she seemed angry, angry because she was losing control, “You might deny it, hide it, mask it, whatever, but you know, and I know, that you have to face your intentions that night,” she stared at me, “Which means you’re in a lot more trouble than you think you are. And you can’t run from yourself forever.”

“I can’t run at all,” I said, glaring, “I guess that’s my problem? I think I need to talk about it.”

She didn’t like that answer. But we continued around the circle. Next person’s answer was, “I feel fine.”

>>>>

It’s funny. Funny in the way that something completely and utterly void of all humor or semblance of an intention to amuse is funny. That’s why I’m laughing so much. And by laughing I mean forced into the grey and bitter hopeless silence of a man pushed to the edge then asked to start building a platform to be even more over the edge without actually falling. The joke is cream-of-wheat. It’s all I can eat right now.

So I’m sitting here, staring at it, on this lovely morning, trying to decide if the hard part is eating mush or eating mush that I’ll just be puking back up in another hour. The idea  _ is _ to keep it down though, apparently. I glanced across the room, over the heads of some other happy breakfast-eaters, and saw one of the nurses somehow turn her eyes right toward me at that exact moment. She had an “eat your damn breakfast look on her face”.

Grudgingly, I brought my hands up from under the table and reached for the plastic spoon, hoisting it over the top of the plastic cream-of-wheat filled bowl. Steam rolled almost lazily off the glossy, sludgy surface as I spooned some out of the bowl, globes falling back into the bowl, onto the table, as my hand shook violently. I decided I’d be determined today. I clamped the spoon between my teeth and made all efforts not to gag. The heat almost felt good against my skin which I swear felt cold, like ice, though it was covered in a sheen of sweat.

The cream-of-wheat slid down my throat and my stomach almost immediately rejected it. I haven’t even wanted to think about eating. Once a favourite past time, now a mandatory obligation. When I do resume daily caloric intake, though, it sure as hell won’t be with cream-of-wheat. Pizza would be great. God, I can’t believe Wilson eats pineapple on pizza, it’s revolting.

I bent over the table top, squeezing my eyes shut from the swirl of nausea coming up my throat. It’s a sad day when a man realizes he can’t even eat mush. The spoon hit the side of the bowl and sank halfway into what was supposed to be breakfast as I fought my own body to swallow even the smallest bit of food or even be able to sit still without shaking the legs of my chair loose. Didn’t take long to realize I was gasping for breath, my chest unwilling to expand for my lungs that felt like they were being crushed even as my heart pounded a million miles a minute. I felt like my body was shutting down. Like someone had somehow gone through it and switched all the “on” switches “off”, crossed wires, and dumped the proverbial cup of coffee over my controls. I couldn’t even eat. Not that I exactly ate well before. Except with Wilson. Not even Stacy had been that good to me. But then again cooking didn’t really come naturally to her. Only things that did were being a lawyer and hating me.

“Greg,” I heard my name, “Feeling okay?”

I barely looked up, “Fine.”

Bill. Billiam? I wasn't sure. Another patient. Also my roommate. Also a meth addict.

“It’ll be alright,” he offered, the faint twang of his childhood in Georgia slurring the edge of his words, nonetheless like knives scraping against my skull, making me cringe, hiding my eyes behind my hand, “I was just like you, just as you are now, worse even, when I first got here,” he took a bite of toast, crunching satisfyingly, “Now I’m so close to discharge I can taste it.”

“Already booked your ticket to Mexico?” I asked, irritated, hand dropping from my eyes, “Remember to send me a postcard—Mexico; where the  _ good _ meth is.”

“I ain’t going to Mexico,” he said, suddenly solemn for some reason that might have something to do with the fact that he was lying, no longer smiling.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to sit?!” I demanded.

“Boy, you’re a ray of sunshine,” he scowled, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together absentmindedly in a way that meant he’d stop at nothing for a cigarette, “You don’t look too hot either.”

“Yeah well, nice teeth,” I shot back. A hand went to his mouth and he shut up. Finally. Meth had eaten away most of his teeth. Otherwise great kid, early thirties, relatively healthy besides the drug addiction and a haircut verging on a mullet. He  _ was _ going to Mexico. It was his plan B, he knew it, I knew it.

“For that I’m gonna tell them what happened last night,” Bill said, sitting back, coffee cup up in his hand.

Patronizing bastard. So glad to have him for a roommate. It’s not like just a couple days ago he’d been dragged from his bed, sheets and all, screaming that he didn’t belong here, and definitely wasn’t hallucinating. His green, watery eyes blinked lazily at me, his mouth quirked in a small grin, “What exactly were you yelling for?” he sucked at his teeth, “Lucky none of the nurses heard you.”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, I just wanna good night’s sleep, like everybody else—instead I got you screaming over some nightmare or other, waking me up damn near three in the morning.”

“You didn’t wake up,” I said, glaring, remembering he’d been more or less still snoring when I’d shot straight up in bed, tangled in sweaty sheets, clasping a hand over my mouth to stay quiet.

“Sure did,” he corrected, “Sounds like something you need to talk to Dr. Fox about.”

“It’s not.”

“Who the hell is Wilson?”

My throat tightened, “No one.”

“You were screaming his name.”

“Look, Billiam, unless you want to get puked on, I’d go sit somewhere else really fast.”

He scoffed, returning to his toast, “That shit doesn’t work on me, I ain’t scared of you.”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

“No,  _ because _ I share a room with you,” he shook his head, speaking past the food in his mouth, “Because I heard this nightmare of yours—I’ve got front row seats to your soft underbelly, my friend.”

“I really am going to throw up.” My leg was red searing hot pain, magnified tenfold by the detoxing, making every moment miserable, I hadn’t eaten in several days, and I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for weeks and due to whatever misfires are happening in my brain right now, whatever meds they have me on, I’m having very vivid dreams. Which means I don’t need this. I reached for my cane hooked on the tabletop.

“I suppose it was about him, then?” Bill inquired, making me look at him. He was playing a game. And I had both hands tied behind my back. I couldn’t exactly fight back and he knew it. God, I wanted to kill him.  _ Do not go any further _ , I thought fiercely.

“This Wilson guy?”

“You’re not going to make it to craft time today if don’t shut up, Bill.”

“What?” he laughed, “Just chatting over breakfast—it’s easy, therapeutic, like, hey Greg, how’d you sleep last night?”

I pushed the bowl away from me, planted my cane on the floor and got up, leaning heavily on both my cane and the back of my chair.

“Hey just repaying all the kindness you’ve given me, pal,” he continued fiercely, standing up so fast his chair rocked back on his heels, getting in my face, “You’re a real fucking asshole, you know that? I’m just getting back at you, it’s only fair—and I ain’t no idiot. You’re mad because I heard you crying, too bad for you.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” I growled.

“Sure it was a nightmare, you were screaming like a wuss, but you think I’m deaf? Think I didn’t hear how it started? You were moaning that guy’s name, squirming around in your sheets long before you started shouting,” he met my eyes, squaring his shoulders, “Fucking faggot.”

His words came to a sputtering halt as my cane hit him square in the stomach, making him double over, clutching his gut. Next hit was to the back of his thick neck, making him crash to the floor, crying out in pain. Nurses were all over me in less than five seconds.

They forced me back to my room, two big nurses on either arm. Trust me, it doesn’t do any good to resist. When I got back to my room they let me go.

I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. Nothing even came up as one after another spasm racked my body, leaving me drained and shaking and empty lying on top of the toilet bowl. I moaned miserably, spit and blood dripping from my lower lip, my chest heaving as I breathed. One of the nurses was at the outer door. I don’t know how long I laid there. She stepped forward and I barely registered the motion.

“I—,” I gasped, taking several shuddering breaths, “Need my medication changed,” my eyes rolled up to look at her.

“You need to not get in fights during breakfast, that’s what you need,” she said, kneeling down, shaking her head. Her name was Maria. She had dark hair pulled tightly back into a puffy pony-tail. Huge arms. And a genuine enough attitude that I wasn’t completely put off by her.

“He started it,” I heard myself say, eyes falling shut again, vomit sour in my mouth. I bit at my lower lip and realized it was trembling.

“Right,” she said and I felt her hand hook under my upper-arm, “Let’s get you cleaned up, just in case there’s a second round.”

I almost jerked my arm away. Would have any other time. She all but lifted me off the floor, slowly, carefully. Guessing she had a lot of practice picking people up off bathroom floors. Probably part of the required skills for the job. Standing on one leg was fine until she tried maneuvering me toward the sink and I braced all my muscles, right foot barely touching the floor. She stopped pulling and I felt tremors race up and down my back, across my shoulders. Felt like I should melt into a pathetic puddle on the floor. But she didn’t let me stop. Didn’t say anything, just held me up as I took baby steps to the sink. I kept my head down, away from my reflection, breaths shallow and tight in my chest.

“What was it about?” she asked, turning on the water, “The fight.”

“I’m not talking to you,” I said, in case it wasn’t clear, “Not in therapy.”

She pushed my hands under the water and covered them with hers, rinsing away vomit and blood. I’d puked one too many times and my throat was starting not to appreciate it, must have torn some tissue. When she touched my hands they stopped shaking, held steady for the first time in days. 

“Do I look like a doctor?” she responded in an amused, almost insulted voice, “I just wanted to know in case I have to separate you two.”

“Would you?”

“Can’t without valid reason,” she said, reaching for a towel, “Only so many beds.”

I nodded, knowing she was right but also knowing I had a legitimate reason to ask for him to be reassigned, if I wanted to tell her the truth, which I didn’t. I let my hands drip in the sink before taking the towel she offered me.

“Get your face, rinse your mouth,” she ordered, watching me, pausing before saying, “If there’s a problem with Bill I can mention it to the doctors.”

I shook my head, wiping the towel over my face, down my neck.

“Why’d you hit him then?”

_ Because he called me a faggot _ , I thought, eyes closing, mind scrambling over something sarcastic to say, throat so raw it was painful to speak, “Misplaced anger,” I said, reaching for the plastic cup, eyes fleeting to her dark ones for a moment, “I’ll miss him when he’s gone,” I filled the cup and took a drink, swirling it in my mouth before spitting it out.

Maria said nothing. Just nodded. She didn’t believe me. What are the chances I get the one smart nurse in the hospital? She took my arm again and helped me to my bed where I sat down. She leaned my cane up against the side. Stood. I looked up at her.

“Something you need?” I asked, annoyed, wanting to be alone.

“You’ve got a visitor penciled in for today. Well enough to see them?”

“Depends who  _ them _ is,” I said, holding my head in my hands.

“Dr. Wilson called this morning to make sure it’d be okay,” she walked to the door, “He’ll be here visiting hours,” she glanced back at me, for affirmation.

I paused, meeting her eyes hesitantly, then nodded. She left.

>>>>>

It was a nightmare. The dream. Anyway, you always end up remembering the  _ nightmare _ part of dreams more than the good parts. The fact that I‘d been dreaming about Wilson isn’t my fault. You can’t control what you dream and you can’t control how quiet or how loud you are when you’re doing it. You’re asleep. It’s private. And yeh I’ve dreamt about him. It’s not wholly unreasonable. He’s my best sometimes worst friend all the time partner in sometimes crime. And it’s all perfect of course until suddenly you’re not dreaming about anything happy, you’re dreaming about something terrible. And bad things happen. Then you wake up.

Christ . . . why’d he have to hear that? Why had he been awake? All he does is sleep most of the time.

I sat on my bed and felt my stomach start to calm. Remnants of the dream swam through my head and I let them. Starts with Wilson. And I’m not mad at him. I don’t hate him in the dream. More importantly he doesn’t hate me. We’re happy. Together. I’m whole with him. It’s more than just sex. And then he’s torn away from me. I keep seeing him in the distance, in black and white, too far to reach and I run after him, run on two strong legs, as fast as I can, but can’t get to him. 

This is maybe the fourth time I’ve dreamt about him in recent months? This is the first nightmare. Usually I’m alone at home, where I can wake up, sheets soaked with sweat, and jerk off and move on. Pretend it never happened. Not like here where it becomes a public spectacle. Nothing I can do to stop it, I try to ignore it. Only choice. Didn’t happen. Because it didn’t. Except those few times when it did. But that was a long time ago. We’re both different people now. 

He’s coming during visiting hours. That’s two hours from now.

>>>>>>

It doesn’t matter if someone is your truly for-real best friend or your sometimes, it-really-depends best friend, no one likes to visit rehab. It’s really only fun for those within the program. The kind of exclusive totally cool club with fridges full of prune juice and restrictions on draw-string pants.

The ducklings had come to visit, I was seriously relieved because I was  _ really _ worried I’d never see a white coat again. That, and there’s no better therapy than being visited, while detoxing, by your overly emotional moronic subordinates, which they did, and they are. Out of all three of them it didn’t occur to any of them that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to come see me here. They needed my help. And I couldn’t help them. Instead I got to suffer under Chase’s distraught gaze at seeing his hero fallen and disgraced, Foreman with a big enough I-told-you-so smirk written across his face that you could have sold half a million copies in virtually a second, and Cameron whose pity was palpable, gushing off her like melted ice-cream from a busted grocery bag in August.

We’d been dancing around the whole pet-the-poor-puppy thing since she walked in the door and I almost made it too, until the last minute, when she threw her thin arms around me, hanging onto me like she was the one that needed support. Chase might have been resisting a similar urge. Her sweet smelling hair filled my nostrils for a moment as Foreman’s dark eyes regarded me coldly from over her shoulder like it was my fault she’d ever cared about me, my fault she was so disappointed now, then she pulled back, squaring her small shoulders and I scowled at her. They’d have to figure the case out without me.

I first sat in the common room to wait to wait for Wilson. Triple paned glass windows reluctantly leaked in light from a long forgotten place called the “outside world”, even without the metallic finality of iron bars this place still managed to feel like a cage. Two people were doing puzzles, another was reading the paper. They knew all the pieces weren’t there. God only knows where they went. Some disgruntled patient liked the picture of the sunny beach of somewhere-in-the-Caribbean a bit too much and decided to eat a few of the choice pieces, who knows. Sad for the rest of us though, having to deal with the totally anticlimactic finish of squaring the last piece away and only seeing an incomplete beach of a place we’re a million miles away from. Feelings of accomplishment would really aid in recovery. Obviously it’s a conspiracy. Cleverly hidden too. 

After an hour, I went back to my room, slowly—my leg screaming at every toe that hit the floor, making the barely one hundred feet to my room seem like an eternity. I was anxious to see him again. I missed him. I sat on my bed, surveying the gray walls, pale light, strong smell of industrial strength cleaners in constant combat with body odor and misery. Anywhere but here. But at least he could see I was trying. At least he could see me sober. 

I bowed my head, hand clamped over my thigh. I wasn’t like I was happy on the drugs. I mean, I must have been happy at some point in my life, all the conditions were right. I’d had a girlfriend, a promising new career, ideal by most standards. But things hadn’t turned out like I thought they would. I’d tried to make all the right choices, thinking that the universe worked according to some sort of input, output system. It doesn’t. It’s impartial. In a matter of days it had chewed me up and spit me out, completely indifferent to the gold stars and supposed goal posts, leaving me broken. 

Looking up suddenly I saw Wilson behind the glass doors, finally. At first I let my eyes lock onto his, an almost sigh of relief escaping my lips, then, modulating my own expectations, I looked back down to my slipper-ed feet.

Part of me didn’t want him to see me like this. The other part wanted it to be years ago when he didn’t know what he knew and everything felt easy. Too much had happened maybe. I’d been snarky, insensitive, increasingly cantacoris and reclusive and he’d stumbled through a few more marriages and adapted to my new quirks, no matter how much they hurt, but somehow we’d always found our way back to each other, pulled toward the same constant gravitational center. Which was a hopeful thought. But maybe I didn’t deserve forgiveness. Didn’t deserve comfort. I’d gone too far. Comfort wasn’t really something I accepted easily anyway. Briefly, didn’t want to remember, a long time ago, my mom stroking my hair after he’d re-looped his belt and left me on the floor.

When I saw a pair of laced brown Italian shoes planted on the grey carpet in front of me I looked up at him.

“House,” Wilson greeted before sitting slowly, carefully taking a seat on my bed, to my left, leaning his briefcase against the side of the bed. He cleared his throat, hesitancy laced in his voice like he was reading from a very blurry cue card, “How are you?”

I thought for a moment, swallowing warm spit down my raw, painful throat before saying in a slightly hoarse voice, “Hungry, actually—food sucks here.”

“Right now you probably can’t even stand the sight of food,” he replied correctly, “Which will make getting out even better,” a hand rubbed at the back of his neck, taking another nervous breath, “You can pick any place and we’ll go.”

My hand hadn’t moved from my thigh and my eyes hadn’t looked up from his shoes but after that moment, after hearing his voice for the first time in days I chanced looking up. He looked neat, hair combed, shaved, wearing a red and white striped tie, the one I’d given him for his birthday three years ago. Maybe someone else wouldn’t have noticed the dark circles under his eyes but I did. 

I swallowed again, wincing at the coppery taste of blood still in my mouth, “Is that place on 46th still open?” I mused after a moment, drawing a thoughtful breath, “Forty dollars is a reasonable price for a steak.”

Wilson smiled. Silence. His eyes wandered back to me from where they’d glanced out at the common room, at the puzzle and the paper and their respective people and I returned the gaze for a moment before asking, “Why did you come?”

“What do you mean?”

“Not in the mood to play footsie under the table with the nurse du jour—or did Cuddy send you?”

“I wasn’t playing footsie with anyone and no, Cuddy didn’t send me,” he answered wearily, “I . . . wanted to see you.” 

I said nothing, bowing my head. I’m a jerk. Always checking for ulterior motives. Parinoid fuck.

Obviously he didn’t have any cue cards. Neither of us knew what to say. There was silence until he spoke again.

“I heard about this place uptown,” he started, “Somewhere where they make alcoholic milk-shakes or something,” he said in a forced conversational tone, “Apparently expensive, I don’t know, never been there.”

I hadn’t intended to join in on such a pointless conversation, a perfect example of the kind of casual conversation that was somehow a requirement for mingling with the festering masses of humanity, but as I liked hearing his voice and I heard myself say, “I’d rather just have a beer.”

Wilson seemed happy I’d said anything back at all and it might be he relaxed a fraction of an inch and it might be my heart obliged to beat at a somewhat more reasonable pace.

“It does sound a little gross . . . but it's chocolate, desert and a drink in one—I thought you’d like that.”

“Are you sure . . . ” I said, licking dry lips, “ . . . it’s such a great idea to bring up not only food, which I can’t eat, but alcohol after the empty bottle of scotch and pills?”

Wilson’s mouth fell open, liquid brown eyes blinking in a shocked expression like someone who had just missed a collision in a busy intersection, “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, with a defeated sigh, “I’m an idiot.”

He sat and agonized and it turns out I couldn’t just watch like I was hoping I could. I pressed my lips together and gritted my teeth, “You really just wanted to come to see me?”

“Why else would I come?”

“Maybe Tritter sent you.”

This time it was a semi that almost hit him.

“House . . . ” he ran a hand over his forehead, through his hair.

I didn’t know what to believe. I wanted to trust him.

“Or maybe you just felt guilty and— ”

“I told him I wouldn’t testify against you, House!” he shouted, then worried he would disturb the ailing masses he quieted, “I’m not working for him and I’m not spying on you or whatever you think’s going on.”

“And I’m just supposed to believe you?”

“I’m not working with Tritter anymore—I tried to back out of the deal and he threatened to send me to jail!”

“Right.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I don’t know.”

“House . . . I know you don’t want to hear this—”

“Wilson—”

“But sometimes people can start experiencing a certain level of paranoia while detoxing, it’s normal—”

“You’re calling me paranoid when you and I both know that  _ someone _ had to tell Tritter about the scripts,  _ someone _ had to go behind my back and make a deal with the devil,  _ someone _ had to tell the fucking doctors about Christmas Eve—”

“You tried to commit suicide!”

“They didn’t know that! They weren't supposed to know about it!”

“I  _ had  _ to. God, what do you think it was like for me? What if I’d come in there and you were already—”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“House, you just have to get through this—”

“For what? For us?” 

He laughed bitterly, frustrated, “You know who called me yesterday? Your parents. You hadn’t answered your phone and they heard some message you left them and god, what would I have told them?”

Of course they called him. “What  _ did _ you tell them?”

“What I had to,” he said, “I’m not going to lie to your parents. You’re mom was worried sick, you’re dad was—”

“Thrilled?”

“He was threatening to come up here—I had to tell them that you were getting help and you were going to be okay.”

I kicked myself for actually thinking I could keep this a secret. I tried to keep her out of all this, she didn’t deserve any of this, “My mom didn’t know, I didn’t want her to know, you didn’t have the right to tell her, or  _ him _ , anything.”

“Take a minute, House, just a moment to think about how your actions affect the people around you, the people that love you. I can’t keep watching you spiral out of control, I can’t, I-I used to be enough, somehow, to stop you, but then--,” his voice cracked and he shifted his weight in restless anger, throwing his eyes across the room then down to the floor, hands clasped together between his knees, “You didn’t even leave a note,” his voice shook and ended abruptly, lifting one of his hands over his eyes, voice forced into tense evenness, “I told her you were sick—that’s it. She must have known it was more than that. I played dumb,” his eyes turned up to me after a second and though he blinked several times I could still see the sheen of barely hidden tears, the light from the common room’s windows shinning dully in his eyes, “You could have died, House—and you didn’t even leave a note.”

I met his eyes. And something cracked. My throat twisted and I was suddenly unable to breathe, body tense, feeling like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The hotness in my eyes became overwhelming and I felt like I was falling. I couldn't breathe. Panic. Oh god. No, no, no. I raised both my hands to my face, covering my eyes. I gasped desperately for air, eyes squeezed shut.

“House,” I heard my name.

Couldn’t respond. Fuck. I wanted to tell him to leave. Get out of here. Please Wilson. 

I’m barely aware of him putting his hand on my shoulder, tears running silently down my face, shaking in a struggle to breathe. He’s moved closer, shushing soothingly under his breath, putting his arm around me, somehow I’ve leaned into him and can take a few breaths. Whether it was his or mine, someone’s heartbeat was incredibly loud in my ears, the feeling of his chest rising and falling, pulling me back. 

“It’s okay, just breathe,” Wilson said and it might have been several times. His hand kept running over my back and I heard him sigh. 

I didn’t want to move. His hand rose to smooth over my hair, fingers clumsy and sincere and perfect. I missed him. I missed him so much. My eyes opened slightly as I heard the humming of more meaningless platitudes resonating in his chest, barely making it past his lips. I felt a warm kiss near my temple, lingering tenderly. Then he held me tighter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry for making that deal, I’m—”

He stopped talking when I pulled back, our eyes level, noses nearly touching. I don’t want to hear him say he’s sorry. I don't know what I want to hear.

I locked my eyes with his, aware of the tears drying on my face. My eyelashes were heavy and wet when they lowered, looking down at his parted lips, sniffing my nose slightly. I leaned forward slowly, closing the distance between us, breathing steadily over his mouth. When he didn’t move, the rest of the distance between us fell away and I caught his lips in mine. He held the warm wet contact for one shuddering second then slowly, cautiously, returned the kiss. One of his hands slid up from my back to hold the back of my head as one of mine lifted to his jaw, pulling him closer. The warmth, the hurried breaths, the smack of our lips, lasted barely enough time for me to realize I was kissing Wilson and he was kissing back and we pulled apart.

Breathing heavily, foreheads together,, “House, I--” he breathed, warm over my mouth.

I closed my eyes, my hand tickling the soft hair at the base of his neck, not wanting to hear him say whatever he was going to say. Just kiss me again. 

“What the fuck is this?!” came a roar from my doorway and Wilson snapped around, scooting away from me on the bed to reveal Bill standing right there. And the nurse. Maria.

“I’m sorry,” Wilson was stammering, standing up, reaching for his briefcase, “I was just—”

“Greg hits me with his cane and still gets visitors?” he demanded of the nurse who remained objectively silent. Why he didn’t mention seeing me, us, on the bed, I didn't know.

“His visitor was scheduled yesterday, Bill,” Maria answered him, arms crossed.

Wilson had sat up, grabbed his briefcase, holding it in front of him. He cleared his throat, “I, gotta get going anyhow,” I looked at him, eyes wide as he backed out the door, saying a quick “excuse me” to the nurse and then was gone. Fuck Wilson. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And I was left in pain. And with an erection. Almost pill time. Which would take care of the pain part of it. But the other part . . . harder to ignore. God, he smelled and tasted just like I remember.

Apparently it’s true—you always hurt the ones you love the most.

>>>>>>

“. . . and then I was riding the bus home one day and in those days I took the bus everywhere didn’t matter if it was raining or sunny or whatever and I ran into him on the seventy-four’s south route downtown which isn’t normally there at that time but was running ten minutes late he was—”

Some people have never heard of verbal punctuation.

They can go on and on with one sentence and not even stop to breathe. They have the profound ability to switch from topic to topic without pause, just moving, flawlessly from one subject to the next, on and on and on. Regardless of who they’re talking to. Doesn’t matter if it’s Stalin or John the Baptist they ramble on and on. This is not a gift. In fact the only cure for this very serious condition is to cut the person’s tongue out and hope they don’t find a way to gurgle excessively.

Like this person. She sat down right next to me at craft time and just started talking. No invitation. Worse even because clay and non-toxic paint apparently have a liberating effect on some people.

“ . . . and I had my transfer from that morning but had to buy another one which is really stupid but I saw him and thought I could borrow a dime or a nickel or something because I was short fare but he looked at me and said . . .”

God, can’t she just shut up! I swear, she says one more word, I’m losing it. That’s it. Done with art today. Done. But, nope—shouting isn’t an option. Not that I’m above yelling at the vulnerable and the witless it's just that I’m on the nurse’s naughty list, and not in any way that will end in a very gratifying sponge bath, more like I’m under constant surveillance for what has been described as an unsubstantiated amount of time. I’m supposed to be good for that unsubstantiated amount of time, which means . . . no hitting other patients with my cane, no yelling, and no threatening to remove this woman’s tonsils with my bare hands.

“ . . . and he could at least have given me enough to ride the bus or given me—”

Just be quiet! Go away! Why doesn’t she just find a good sized book and hit me over the head with it? Why doesn’t she drink her way through a dozen gin bottles then smash them three feet away from my ears while blasting scratched and skipping CDs on seven huge speakers?! My head dropped into my hands, fingers pulling at my hair, gritting my teeth past the point that nine out of ten dentists would recommend.

“ . . . he just got on the bus and didn’t talk to me or anything there was nothing I—”

“You totaled his car!” I screamed, unable to take it anymore, “Why do you think he was taking the bus?! You wrecked his car! He had no car to drive!”

Her mouth clamped shut and a glob of paint chose that moment to glop from the tip of her brush back onto the purple-paint covered paper plate under it. And everyone else decided to be quiet and reflective at that same moment—I’m not saying it had something to do with me, I don’t know, but everyone was staring.

She sniffed, lower lip extending enough to emotionally match the redness of her nose, “I told you that in confidence.”

“Christ . . . ”

“Greg,” Maria the nurse said, stepping up to our table, “Problem?”

I looked up at her, “I’m out of clay.”

“I’ll get you more,” she said hesitantly, the familiar quality of our exchange no doubt having something to do with her cleaning up my vomit repeatedly.

I didn’t need more clay. I needed a noose. Or a hand grenade. Or a very tall building to jump off of. I stared at the block of red-ish clay in front of me. It was already an attractive amorphous block. Why ruin it?

“That was really mean, Greg,” the woman whimpered, pushing her paintbrush across her paper in a slow, depressed, purple way.

“But true,” I mumbled.

“Here you go,” Maria said, coming back with some more clay, this time it was white not red, “Knock yourself out,” clay met table and she crossed her arms in front of her, making it clear if push came to shove she could beat me or anyone in an arm-wrestling contest, eyes sliding coolly to the side, narrowing somewhat as she glanced at the teary woman next to me, then to the clay in front of me, “Sarah? You alright?” she asked nicely, getting a sad nod in return. She turned back to me and asked, “What are you making exactly?”

“I’m . . . making something for someone,” I answered.

“Yeah? And who’s that?” the nurse asked and I know I didn’t miss the distinct air of disbelief in her voice.

“Someone,” I said forcefully, annoyed.

When I looked back up Maria still had her arms crossed, disbelief slanted on her face.

“Is that hard for you to believe, or something?” I asked, still annoyed.

“More hard for me believe you’d do something nice for someone.”

“I know I’ve been withdrawn,” I simpered, nodding solemnly, “The pills were the only things that were important—not like now, now I know what really matters . . . and that’s love.”

She laughed. I frowned. Sarah sniffed more.

“Do you really think that’s true?” Sarah asked after several heavy seconds of a very intense staring contest between Maria and me.

I broke eye contact with Maria, sticking my hands in the clay in front of me, letting my fingers sink in, drawing a deep breath as Sarah waited for a response. For a moment the answer stalled on the tip of my tongue—love’s not an obscure thing, I could explain it to you as a symptom of a much bigger disease or as a disease all in itself, biologically boring, all neural pathways becoming accustomed to sensory input patterns and complimentary sexual organs rather than anything profound. Shakespeare might have said differently but he was a poet, not a doctor. Love is human’s excuse not to fear mortality. Makes it okay to die . . . makes it okay to live . . .

“No,” I answered finally, pushing the clay flat silently. It wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d said yes. She knows as much as I do that love is nothing compared to getting wasted and making a tin can out of your fiancée’s car a week before the wedding or overdosing on pain killers and watching the one person who means anything to you in your life walk out the door. Love can go head to head with those things but it doesn’t mean it can win. It can offer selfless sacrifices, it can never give up, it can take care of you when you’re sick, it can come visit you in rehab even after all you’ve put it through, that doesn’t make it infallible. It makes it stupid.

I realize suddenly I’m smiling slightly, the tugging at the corners of my mouth almost unfamiliar.

I want to make something for Wilson. I don’t know what. I just want to make him something. It’s stupid. But I can give it to him when he comes and visits again. I already established that he’s stupid, so I know he will.

I suddenly see movement to the side of me and my eyes dart upward to see Bill standing next to me.

“Nice art,” he said, sitting down, “Supposed to be what, an ashtray?”

I laughed somewhat and sat back in my chair, one hand still on the clay, the other slung over the back of my chair, regarding him darkly for a moment, “You’re not packing? What, no discharge?”

His lips pressed tightly together, eyes wandering over the floor for a moment, anger tightening his voice, “I wouldn’t worry about it—I’m still gonna get out of here before you do,” he retorted.

“Paying the right people off?”

“Maybe,” he said, watching my hand on the clay for a moment, “If you don’t have the right people in high places you gotta find your own way to beat the system.”

“Admirable.”

“That . . . Dr. Wilson is a nice fella,” Bill drawled in an intentionally idle way, his southern accent hanging heavily on his vowels, bringing his green eyes up to mine and raising his chin in a challenging gesture.

“Is that a general observation?” I asked, keeping my voice even.

“I thought I’d mention it—after he came to visit yesterday,” he continued, “Awfully friendly of him,” my eyes jerked up, his satisfied tone matching a smirk that slowly slid over his lips, “You know, golly, I know people—people outside, and they might not be in high places but they’re in some pretty low places . . . ”

“I’m sure you do,” I said, “Big surprise you’re a southern hick skinhead, really thought more of you, Bill.”

“I’m talking enemies, you’re not careful—”

“And if you’re not careful you’re going to lose some teeth, get it?”

His eyes sidetracked to my cane then back, “No need to get angry—this is craft time, go on make your little ashtray—art is healing, remember?”

It’s not an ashtray. Which is smart for two reasons, one; originality is always something to strive for, and two, to a lesser extent, though still prominent, Wilson doesn’t smoke.

My hands on clay, fingerprints combing faint patterns on the surface, memories came to the surface; I couldn’t have been more than six. My Dad smoked. A lot. Complaining was stupid in general but also apparently more so for a five or six year old, if the smoke was making me cough he’d stamp the sole of his figurative boot in the figurative pool of my emotions and grind in the heel saying, “Then leave the room”.

So I’d made my dad an ashtray, thinking it was smart, that he’d like it.

He’d smashed it.

I’d traced a flower on the bottom of the tray, a daisy, and I guess he didn’t like daisies. Or me. Or both. 

It’s a coffee mug.

Or anything mug, doesn’t have to be coffee.

Tea, water, Coke, milk, various kinds of citrus in distress.

Although, our handsome protagonist oncologist drinks a startling amount of coffee, so it might be full of coffee, and to a greater extent sugar, nearly twenty-two hours of every day.

Or he might smash it.

I felt a very small part of myself cringe at the distant, decades old sound of clay shattering into a hundred little pieces against the fireplace and turned the coffee mug over in my hands, inhaling past the nervousness. Wilson doesn’t throw things. That’s more of a me thing. But I had to try. Kissing him during a panic attack probably didn’t make things too clear for him. 

>>>>>

Wilson is coming to visit again. It’s been 46 hours since time. 

And today’s good, I ate breakfast, I made my bed, I’ve stopped shaking. All’s fantastic in the state of Denmark, no problems at all.

Lifting my right thigh with both hands I hauled it into a straight position in front of me as I stretched out on my bed, letting the mug lean against my hip on top of the blankets. He’d be here soon.

The awful routine of this place, group, meal, group, sleep, meal, was enough to drive anyone crazy. I was excited to see him. Anything to shatter the monotony. I never really cared about what was going on before, hospital-wise, but I’d give anything to limp to a vending machine and find out that they’re out of hazelnut coffee, eventually settling for vanilla, but only bitterly.

And I’d kissed him. For the third time. He’d kissed me the second time, we were trading off. I’d kissed him. Impulsively, stupidly, desperately, one or more of those. Kissing Wilson was like getting that cup of hazelnut flavored coffee after it was out of order for years—everything, right down to the way he gave tiny, second-long kisses on my lower lip, the way he moaned in the back of his throat like a contented puppy, to his sweet, almost addictive taste—it had been perfect and beautiful and, whelp, no one ever said life was going to be easy, the heart, or the penis, wants what it wants, all you need is etc etc--and it’d been a huge mistake. Right? For years we’d avoided, or rather balanced right on the edge of, a mutual attraction, flirting was great, fine, totally hetrosexual, why not just go our whole lives, this kind of connection happens everyday. Yeh right.

I’d been shutting my eyes briefly, determined to be as open as I could be, somehow, uncharacteristically, not like I have anything to lose really, when Wilson showed up, finally.

“Hey,” he said from the doorway, knuckles tapping lightly on the frame.

“Hi,” I responded, covering the mug with my hand, pushing it against my side so it was hidden, then folded my hands over my stomach, meeting his eyes from across the room.

Wilson took a few idling, slow steps into the room, “You finally learned how to make hospital corners,” he commented with a classic I’m-not-that-cute smile that was so James Wilson the campaign is coming out next season complete with his own line of cologne and bath products and tasteful black and white ads in Vogue magazine. He dropped a box he was holding on the bed, “Pop Tarts,” he explained needlessly, taking a lingering breath, “Nurses say you’re doing better,” he sat down on the bed, running a hand through his hair.

“Thanks,” I said, shifting my feet so he had more room, careful not to upset the mug as I sat forward to grab the box. Wilson had set his eyes to wander-mode so when I looked back up at him, the smooth cardboard under my fingertips, he wasn’t looking at me.

“Is your roommate . . .”

“On a pass for the afternoon,” I answered.

“Good,” he inhaled deeply, “Good.”

I set the Pop Tarts on my nightstand, trying not to acknowledge the awkwardness, which, really rehab-is-uncomfortable enough, obviously, so it wasn’t just the gay elephant in the room.

“You’re not wearing a tie,” I said after a moment, head tilted to the side, surveying his tie-less ensemble.

“Yeah, forgot one today.”

“How could you forget a tie?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“True,” I nodded, “Did . . . you lose all your ties?”

“House, we don’t have a lot of time—do you really want to spend it talking about what tie I may or may not be wearing today?”

“Yes?”

“No.”

“I just want to know,” I said, offering an innocent shrug, “You know, in case you’ve gone off wearing ties and I mistakenly buy you another one for your birthday or Christmas or something.”

“Hanukkah,” he said offhandedly.

I narrowed my eyes, watching him squirm as the pause didn’t assure him he was safe from further questions, glancing from the top of his head, hair scruffed-up and notably un-neat, to his feet which were nonetheless wearing the same nice, stylish shoes he always wore, “You wouldn’t just stop wearing ties—and you have enough that you’d never run out, so for some reason you must have been cut off from the source,” I watched him close his eyes, a hand rising to his temple, then continued, “Did you sleep in your office? And if so, why not just wear the same tie two days in a row?”

“House . . .” he said and his eyes drifted to the side, pouring impatience into my name but not fooling anyone, namely me, as he tried to obviously keep a slow smile from spreading across his lips.

“Your hair is un-brushed, your face is dry—it’s not extra cold outside so it must be a reaction to something, a new kind of soap or shaving cream—”

“Okay,” he said sharply, giving in, eyes shooting back to mine, “I didn’t go back to my hotel room last night—happy?”

“Getting there.”

“I . . .” he sighed, obviously whatever he was about to say would be better in three to five seconds, hand reaching to rub the back of his neck, that same smile coming to his face, rolling his eyes, “I went to your place and . . . didn’t . . . leave.”

Unlike him I resisted, and succeeded, in not smiling, licking my lips as his eyes came back to me, again, this time holding a challenging resolve, daring me to say something more, a playfulness colouring his cheeks just enough for me to notice. If I’d smiled I would have ruined it. Instead I narrowed my eyes, pressing my lips together in my best put-out, did-I-hear-you-right expression, “Better water pressure?” I asked, not breaking contact, holding him secure with my eyes, the way you’d hold onto a bag of unmarked bills getting onto a busy subway train, the way you’d curl both hands around a bat as the pitcher glared at you from the mound, the way you’d hug the side of a cliff as your shoe lost its footing for the seventh time.

“I thought I’d go over there, see how things were,” he said softer than before, almost defensively, blinking several times, “I didn’t plan to sleep over there, I just . . .” he shrugged, losing track of what he wanted to say as I stared at him.

“You slept in my apartment,” I restated, raising my eyebrows.

“Under the circumstances I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said flatly, “Did you know your alarm clock is broken?”

“Thank god,” I breathed, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. My alarm clock, as they often are, is in my bedroom. He slept in my bed.

“I overslept—it was supposed to wake me up—I was rushing, and consequently one of my ties, the one I was wearing, got coffee spilled all over it.”

“It wouldn’t have killed you to be late for once.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to get a functional alarm clock like a responsible human being.”

“Studies show that people who wake up to an alarm clock every morning die younger.”

“Versus being woken up by . . .”

“Sunlight, natural rhythms, a handjob—unless you’re James Wilson, then you’ve been sleeping on the couch for the better  _ whole _ of your marriage.”

“The window of your bedroom faces south.”

“And my sheets are what colour . . . ?”

“Blue.”

“Really?” I looked up to the ceiling, “I have blue sheets?”

‘Yeah, they’re like light blue, light-ish, sort of.”

“Like a tea cup blue? Windex blue?“

“Like your eyes blue.”

He took a moment to press his lips together, maybe regretting the last four words he’d said, then gave a noticed self-aimed wince, closing his eyes.

“You slept in your best friend’s bed while he was in rehab,” I said, nodding slowly, a cautious smile coming like a slow sax note to my lips.

“I was thinking of making a memorial but didn’t have the funding.”

“You used my soap to wash your face—it’s not that fancy exfoliating stuff you’re used to, it irritated your skin.”

“Yes, it all makes sense now.”

I looked closer at the colour of his undershirt, visible because he didn’t have the rope of silk tied around his throat, and saw a speck of blue on the cotton collar, “That’s . . . my shirt.”

He sighed, “You’re obviously feeling better,” he fixed me with a disapproving, though miraculously still admiring gaze, then shifted them guiltily to the side, “Yes—it’s your shirt—I’m not even going to bother denying it.”

“This was because your other shirt was dirty?”

“Partly.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Do you  _ want _ me to be uncomfortable?” he proclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands, “Why are you interrogating me?”

“Just having fun.”

“You’re impossible—it’s no big deal, I slept in your apartment, I slept in your bed, I miss you.”

I looked away from him, left hand flexing around the rim of the mug at my side, out of his sight, a warm, unmistakably happy feeling creeping over my chest, “The bed is better with me in it,” I murmured. When he didn’t deny that either, stretching his legs out slightly, maybe relaxing a tiny amount, my finger tapped several times on the rim of the mug and I took it from its hiding place. I held it out to him, chewing at my lower lip, “I made you this, craft time.”

He paused, eyes going from the mug to me, silent. Then his hand reached out to take it and his fingers brushed mine briefly, forefinger and middle-finger resting over my knuckles, a flash of warmth, then gone. He lifted it in front of him, inspecting it. I ran a hand over the stubble over my cheek, scratching at my sideburns, eyes lowered as he turned it around, silent.

“It’s . . .” he started, breath lisping through his front teeth.

“They force us to be creative—I just,” I shrugged, “You drink coffee.”

“House,” he said and I looked up at my name, meeting his eyes which were pools of melting, sweet affection like the last sip from your drink after all the sugar’s sunk to the bottom, making me doubt the bad-idea-ness of the mug as well as taking my coffee black. My heart even did backflips..

“You hate it.”

“No. I love it,” he murmured, looking away, eyelashes fluttering slightly, then looked back at me, “Thanks.”

For a few quiet moments we just sat there, looking into each other’s eyes, the stupid mug resting on his knee. I didn’t know what he’d do next. Sleeping at my apartment was one thing, I know he missed me but sleeping in my bed; I pictured him curled up under my rumpled sheets, his clothes folded over a chair, glass of water on my nightstand, coming to work without a tie, my shirt on his bare skin—I wasn’t sure what those things meant but no matter what I hoped for, they didn’t mean that he would ever want to be with me—no sane person would ever want to be with me.

“You’re welcome,” I heard myself say. Wilson looked uncertain and frightened. Maybe the mug was a tipping point. Maybe it was pity. Nothing sadder than getting crappy crafty gifts from sick people. Maybe it wasn’t pity though. Maybe it was something else. Maybe.  Maybe the tenseness was too much for him, maybe he’d made a decision, maybe the mug had been a larger persuader than I thought, maybe I really was that pathetic, the silence secured itself around us like a bubble and all I could see was Wilson. 

He exhaled, “House,” he said, shifting so one leg was up on the bed, his leg pressed against mine, “I’m not going to,” he stopped, rethinking his words, then in one one big rush he said, “We were both there I don’t need to say it we both know it . . . happened again.”

I nodded, “Yeh,”

“Which I guess, shouldn’t have surprised me,” he said almost to himself, then frowned, “I just don’t want to,” he laid a hand, a hesitant hand, like he was touching something hot, on my leg, “Be . . . in the way. Of this, all this. This is important.”

I looked from his hand to his face. If he did know me, he knew I was terrified. That these conversations didn’t come easily to me, that over the last few years I’d more readily push people, him, away from me rather than actually communicate. Couldn’t he do that Wilson thing that he does with me, figure out all that was in my heart, without all the translation errors?

“Maybe I want you in the way. Maybe I need something,” I finally said, “Someone.”

He looked almost boyish, barely hiding a smile, scared, hopeful, both, biting a corner of his lip, “Me?”

“Obviously you,” I said, eyes narrowed, “I don’t,” my throat tightened, forcing me to pause, “Expect you to . . . be there, I know what I’ve put you through and I’m sorry, for all of it,” his lips parted, brows knitted together in thought.

He shifted his weight so he was facing me more, “What are you saying, House?”

Heart pounding. Lowered my eyes, “I don’t want to ignore this anymore,” I looked up, “We both know what this is. What this could be.”

I’d put myself on the cliff. The cliff that was well marked with signs, for years, heading down the length of highway in supposed ignorance until not so suddenly it's coned off and our toes are hanging off the grassy ledge, down to the sea below. I was tired. Of a lot of things. Mostly tired of losing him. I’d rather lose him taking this chance. 

He hadn’t said anything, seemingly in thought, processing, then he frowned in a speculative expression, “How many times have I been married?” he asked.

“Three?”

“Did you like any of my wives?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“You made it pretty clear,”

“They weren’t worthy of you.”

“They weren’t that bad.”

“They weren't me,”

“Not even close.”

“Lucky for you I’m a patient man.”

“Not the exact word I’d use to describe you.”

“Observant then,” I chewed at my lip, eyes narrowed, “Maybe it escaped your notice but we’ve kissed three times now. And we’ve never talked about it. Which strikes me as odd. And closeted. And wrong. Blame this environment but I’m over it. My genitals react to you in an undeniable way. I could ask you about your genitals but I do remember putting my hand down your pants on Fourth of July that one time, seemed reactive to me. We should probably just have sex, we’d fight less, or more, but then there’s make-up sex.”

He is eyebrows shot to the top of his head and he smiled, shaking his head slightly before focusing his eyes on mine, “Shut up, House,” he leaned forward and, for a moment, gauging my reaction, pausing to meet my eyes, his lips brushed over mine then held there, pressed sweet and soft against mine, hand on the side of my face. Pulled back from me. Met my eyes.

“Was that ok?” 

I smiled, heart drumming in my chest, “Was that a yes?”

“Yes,” he kissed me again, my eyes rolled shut with a satisfied groan, pulling back quickly to say, “Get your own soap,” kissed him lightly, watching his eyes, “But you can stay at my apartment.”

I’m on a cloud. It’s not something I do a lot. It’s strange. And un-cloudy.

>>>>>

The clock ticked one minute closer to three. Dr. Fox was waiting.

Almost three o’clock. Almost time for my appointment. For the first time since coming to rehab I didn’t mind going to therapy. Because of the aforementioned cloud.

I got up from my bed, holding back a grimace as pain dripped like lava from my hip all the way to the end of my toes, my temples following suit a few seconds later, who were then accompanied by a sudden thick feeling over my tongue as my friend Nausea waved hello again.

Doesn’t matter. Somehow none of that matters right now. I’d shrug to illustrate said nonchalance if that wouldn’t assuredly hurt too. There is no clear, recent memory of me having felt optimistic, but here I am, I know this is it. Maybe I haven’t experienced it, in full, exactly, but I’ve read about it; I’m sure of it, this is the real deal, this is optimism.

__ My leg will hurt. But that’s okay. I have Wilson.

I limped across the ward into the section designated for meetings with the various counselors. Sure enough Dr. Fox was there.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Fox,” I greeted, closing the door after me, flashing a quick smile.

“Good afternoon,” she reciprocated, all except the smile, slipping her glasses on and opening the file, my file, on her lap.

“Having a good day?” I asked, sitting down, leaning my cane on the inside of my knee.

“Relatively,” she said with a frown, cocking her head to side, “What happened?”

“You just said the word relatively.”

“I mean with you,” she said, obviously confused, “You’re . . .”

“—talking too fast?”

“No, you seem . . .”

“Indescribable?”

“Unbelievable.”

“If I had a  _ nickel _ for every time that word was said in succession with my name . . .”

“You’d be a rich man.”

“I’d certainly have a lot of nickels.”

“You’re happy.”

“Am I? Well, that’s  _ your _ lingo—not mine.”

“It’s a common enough word, Greg—and it’s not a bad thing.”

“Good—usually I only use morally bankrupt lingo—glad to be on this side of the fence.”

“Mind telling me what brought this on?”

“Serotonin—dopamine, healthy dose of both of those.”

“Not even a day ago you were seriously depressed—short of entering a manic phase, which is, I suppose, is possible, there has to have been an external influence. What was it?”

“Couldn’t I have just gotten tired of being so sad and reflective—the tears always smudge up the glass.”

“I’ll believe the sad part, good job at the lingo by the way, but the reflective part? Not so much with you, Greg.”

“Hey, that’s not fair—when you tell a man he’s unreflective you might as well tell him he’s bad at sex.”

“I  _ did _ call you unreflective and I also find it interesting that you’re bringing up sex in conjunction with that revelation—either they’re related or you’re deflecting—want to make it easy on me and tell me which one?”

“Are we forgetting I’m a real doctor not a head-shrink? Different education. I never read the backs of cereal boxes when I was a kid.”

“Bringing up your childhood—interesting—also not what I was asking. I believe we were getting to the bottom of your rather sudden mood change.”

“Good, back to me—my favourite topic. You know that list you asked me to make, of all the things I love, with myself on the top? I made it—great exercise by the way—I’m going to paint some rainbows and flowers later while watching  _ The Sound of Music _ .”

“It was a simple exercise.”

“Exceedingly—idiots everywhere can enjoy it.”

“Liking yourself doesn’t make you an idiot.”

“I know—But I’m really trying to flex my selfishness, by the end of the year I hope to be completely self-absorbed.”

“We’re straying off topic, Greg.”

“Were we ever on one? I’m confused—it must be catching.”

“We were—and if you’ll stay focused we can continue being so.”

“You should recognize the usefulness of straying of topic—most of what you psych-doctors do is read between the lines, right?”

“To a point.”

“So have a go—why am I happy?”

“You tell me.”

“I have been—you just need to listen  _ really _ carefully.”

“Contrary to what some people may think we’re not mind readers.”

“Colder.”

“Greg, I’m not playing any game, I want you to talk to me.”

“Still cold.”

“Okay . . . something happened, outside your head, more than just neural receptors.”

“Warmer.”

“Something happened during craft-time?”

“Ha—colder.”

“I saw you made something—was that it?”

“Ice cold.”

“Greg, I can’t guess every possibility why you’re smiling today—this is the first time I’ve ever seen you smile, by the way.”

“Don’t give up—this is fun.”

“I think you mean immature.”

“Same thing.”

“You had a visitor. Dr. Wilson. He just left.”

“Why does he still get his honorary title? We’re all doctors here.”

“What would you rather I called him?”

“He likes Jimmy—I’m partial to Thing 1.”

“And you’re Thing 2?”

"Calling me  _ Thing _ is supposed to help me? I thought we were working on my self-esteem.”

“What happened with Dr. Wilson?”

“Wow, you’re hot.”

“Excuse me?”

“The game—you’re hot.”

“Dr. Wilson is the reason you’re happy.”

“God, you’re good.”

“It was a good visit?”

“I . . . can’t say.”

“Why not?”

“My honor. And his.”

“Greg . . . you and Dr. Wilson have a very . . . complicated relationship. It’s been the source of many of the problems you’ve faced recently, that’s true right?”

“True,” I agreed, eyes wandering around the room, the familiar pain in my thigh made me rub the uneven muscle over my leg, the friction of fabric on the heel of my palm warming my skin, “But there’s a reason for that and . . . pills don’t love me . . . my leg doesn’t love me . . . my patients certainly don’t love me . . . the damn white board doesn’t love me,” I looked up from my hand, “He does.”

She watched me a moment, eyelashes fluttering slightly under the lenses of her glasses as she took a slow breath between her lips, “You made him the mug.”

I nodded.

“It’s not just a mug, Greg.”

“I’m pretty sure it was.”

“It was an offering—you want to start over, renew your friendship.”

“God, really? Do I need to mention the cigar thing? Really would be on point though.”

Her lack of reaction, product of years of training in dealing with crazy people, was followed by a few moments of direct eye-contact before she raised her chin slightly and asked, “How long have you had feelings for him?”

I frowned, “Do you want me to say birth?”

“If we are talking about your sexuality, sure.”

“It’s not that complicated. I’m sure you know how it works.”

“Not for you. How does it work?”

“There’s an increase of blood flow to my genitals when I’m introduced to certain stimuli. Wasn’t birth but I figured out my penis enlarged at more than just boobs around the time my father switched from belts to fists,” she didn’t react, I hate that, “Clear enough for you?”

“That must have been very traumatic. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“I heard it gets better. Somewhere.”

She actually took a moment to look away, eyes closing for a moment, folding her glasses then putting them gently on her desk before returning to me, “What happens if you don’t properly clean a wound before you close it up?”

“I’m assuming you mean a metaphorical wound.”

“No, I mean a real wound—what happens if there’s germs and dirt inside the injury and you stitch it up anyway?”

“There wouldn’t be—any idiot doctor knows simple first aid—clean, then stitch.”

“What if you missed some? What if it was bleeding too much?”

“You’d stop the bleeding, clean it, then suture it,” I said, getting angry.

“But let’s just say that it  _ doesn’t _ get clean. The wound would get infected, wouldn’t it? It would fill with puss, the infection would spread.”

“Yes.”

“You’re so insistent at stitching up everything that hurts, Greg, before anyone can look at any of it and pass their judgment, but you’re not doing yourself any favors. If you don’t talk about something, if you don’t work through it, it’s like dirt in a wound. Just because it’s closed and not bleeding anymore doesn’t mean it’s healed, actually it’s just going to get worse.”

“And so that makes  _ this _ a course of antibiotics?”

“If it helps to think of it that way, yes. We have to fight the infection under the scars.”

I let out a short, bitter laugh, “Wasn’t that a lyric in a Skynard song?”

“I’m not trying to ruin your mood, I’m trying to help you,” she said in gentle way that only came off as patronizing, “I’m glad to see you happy—but just because you’re happy now doesn’t mean your problems are gone.”

“You think if I work through the issues about my father  _ now _ that it’s really going to make a difference? Do you think if I could explain how I felt on Christmas Eve it would really matter? None of that matters now. What’s going to make a difference is me and Wilson. I can forget everything else.”

“Will he?”

“That’s not fair,” I replied, “At least get us into couples therapy before you start speaking for him.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell everyone else? That you are a couple? That would be a big step for you.”

“Thank you,” I said bitterly, “For stating the obvious. I thought coming out at my age would be easy.”

“You never told anyone?”

“No one but my boyfriends.”

“You were ashamed?”

“It was one more thing I was hiding from people, what did I care?”

“I think you did care.”

“For my safety. For anyone I was with. My father would have killed me. Or him,” I ran my hand up and down my thigh a few times, eyes wandering to the side, “I was hoping he’d be dead before he had to find out.”

“And now?”

“I’m going to invite him to the wedding. He likes Wilson already. Wait till he hears about anal beads, he’ll love that.”

“Well, “ she said, “This . . . is good news.”

“I’ll say—we’ve already got it planned out. Cameron’s helping pick out the dress, Foreman’s providing the proper bling, and Chase is the flower girl.”

“Greg, I was being serious,” she countered, “You’re through the worst of your detox, you aren’t reliant on the Vicodin anymore, you may be starting an actual relationship with someone—your life appears to me coming together. You must be aware—”

“What I’m aware of is I’m done talking about this—this is my cloud, my happy feeling—you can’t make it go away—you can’t try and rationalize, analyze it to death, or make me look at it from any new and perplexing angle,” I stopped to take a breath, hating that I was having to defend myself, “Once I’m out of here it’s not going to matter to you who I sleep with—you’re not invited to the wedding by the way,” I got to my feet, using my cane and part of the table in front of me, “My time’s up,” I said, ignoring her quick glance at her wristwatch to confirm that time was actually not-up, “I’m taking my gayness elsewhere—to someone who won’t try and rain on it,” I limped to the door, not looking back.

I was just making a b-line for the door of my room when one of the nurses blocked my way. And by blocked I mean he was like a marshmallow expanding on the surface of cocoa in a very small mug.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked, eyes slightly shifty.

“No, I just got done with Dr. Fox,” I replied distractedly, squaring my shoulders a little, my ego inadvertently affected by the nurse’s sheer girth, “Feel free to take that out of context.”

The nurse caught my eyes and the volume of his voice lowered, “I have it.”

“Have?” I asked, frowning.

“Vicodin.”

Blinked. Wetted my lips. “I asked for it four days ago.”

“Took me that long.”

My breath was fast. Mouth dry. Searched him with my eyes, his hands, pockets, eyes eventually making it back up to his, a cold sweat breaking out over my skin.

“So where’s my money?” the nurse asked, the sound of his foot tapping nervously at the edge of my senses.

Money. Money for pills. Vicodin. I’d asked him. Desperate. Detoxing. How could I forget I’d asked him? Asked him to get them for me. Days ago. Long shot. Knew it was a long shot. Now he had them. Now when my life appears to be coming together. Everything seems to be working out. I just have to get through rehab. Get through it. And then Wilson and I can be together. I can wake up next to him in the morning. I’ll kiss him and he’ll taste like coffee. We’ll go to work. Come home. Happy. Because he’ll be there.

Everyday can be like that. Nothing in our way. He’ll love me, not pity me. He’ll love me.

“In my room.”

>>>>>>

I stashed the pill bottle in a sock. Very original, I know. Stashed them there and went out to the common room. It’s Thursday. That means an Adam Sandler film. The same one we’d seen every Thursday before. What have I ever done to deserve this? This was one of the seven circles of hell, right after one's penis transforms into a cucumber amidst a herd of guinea pigs. 

Not adhering to any particular religion I’m reluctant to use such words as penance for my sins but maybe it was my deep belief in Santa Claus that kept me in that chair.

Not going in my room. Not going. My socks are in that room. And there are pills in those socks. So I’m staying here. Whatever ground I’d gained I wanted to keep. For as long as I can. For Wilson. Not for Dr. Fox though. Fuck her.

Pills. Pills. Pills. Pain. Pills. Pills. Pills. 

Not that the movie is the only thing to watch. There’s clients. There’s a young girl. Thin. Too thin. Hair dyed black with blonde roots showing. She is new. Her eyes are glazed. She is on heavy duty meds. I guess alcohol by the redness of her nose, swollen abdomen and tremor. An older man is laughing uproariously at the movie. He is bloated, swelling at the ankles, red cheeks and tapping feet. Coke? Do people do coke anymore? Maybe adderall mixed with good old fashioned weed.

“Dr. House?”

I turn and see a doctor I’d never seen. Probably the psychiatrist.

“Here,” I answered.

“Can I have a word?” 

My eyes darted to my room. The pills. Fuck. Did he know? “I haven’t seen this movie before,” I said, “Could we pause it?”

“This can’t wait, I’m sorry,”

“No you’re not,” I grumbled, getting up, “It’s a classic.”

In the room I sat on the end of my bed, looking everywhere but at my dresser. God, Wilson will be so mad at me. Maybe I can explain to him.

“Is this about my meds? I know pain management is a dirty word around here but I’m in for real pain.”

“No,” he stood with my file under his arm, “I know this may be unexpected but you’ll be discharging sooner than expected.”

“Discharging? When?”

“This evening. Right now.”

“I don’t get it, I thought I had to complete my sentence. Besides, I'm still detoxing.”

“We’ve determined you are free from danger. And frankly you’re needed elsewhere.”

“Puerto Rico?”

“Under supervision you’re needed back in your department.”

“Huh,” I chewed on my lower lip, “Cuddy?”

“She put in a request.”

“Ok.”

“So, pack your stuff, this is your lucky day.” His entire attitude seemed in poor taste. That and his just for men dyed beard.

“Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome,” he smiled, “We know it wasn’t easy,” turning to leave, in an obvious hurry for some reservation somewhere that served shrimp cocktail, “Maria will do the paperwork,” at the door he knocked on the frame saying, “And House, I hope to never see you again.”

I took a taxi to be dramatic. I knew he’d be there. Stepping out of the hospital for the first time in a week I took a moment to look up into the sky, filling my lungs with the fresh air. I chewed off my wrist band as the taxi arrived and let it drop into the gutter.

Wilson was already asleep when I got home. In the dim bedroom, lit only by the nightlight in my bathroom and the streetlight outside I could see him curled up with both my pillows. Snoring slightly. I limped quietly to his bedside, careful to slide my socks across the floor rather than step, and grabbed his phone then went to the kitchen.

I opened the fridge and grabbed the milk. He must have gotten it. Rarely bought it. Always went bad. Love that Wilson drinks whole milk. I gulped down nearly half the carton and caught my breath before leaning against the island, holding up his phone. Flipping it open I searched for Cameron’s number, switching to a text message.

God I’m glad to be home. Smells like me. My books. My piano. I’m a person here. I scanned the quiet apartment and saw small signs that Wilson had been staying here. The blanket was neatly folded on the back of the couch. Magazines were sacked on the coffee table. He’d cleaned up the mess I’d made on Christmas. 

Had he cooked anything? I finished with the phone and looked in the fridge again, both my stomach and my leg demanding attention.

“House?”

Popping my head over the door of the fridge I saw WIlson, sleepy, in a t-shirt, my t-shirt, and boxers, hair falling over his forehead, looking incredibly sexy and unprepared.

“Surprise.”

“Oh my god, how--” he rubbed at his eye, “Did you--?”

“No cuckoo's nest, no,” I closed the fridge, “The order came from on high.”

He looked confused as I limped forward a few steps, coming to rest a hand on his hip for balance. He seemed unphased by the sudden familiar contact, just shifted his weight to support me better, “Cuddy?”

“I’m needed.”

“Well, I--I’m glad, just--are you okay?”

“Yeh,” I nodded and half smiled, “Glad you’re here,” turned my eyes downward for a moment, “Makes it home.”

He smiled, brown eyes filling with warmth, “I would have made something, if I’d known,” he raised a hand to my lip, brushing it lightly with his thumb, “I did buy milk,”

I licked my lip clean, in case he’d missed any and raised an eyebrow, “You know I’m going to take advantage of you,” I leaned closer, inhaling deeply, enjoying his scent filling my nostrils, “It’s only a depraved pleasure being the one that held out and won the prize,” I brought my nose to his ear and inhaled the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin from sleep.

“What are you an animal?”

In answer I pulled him to me with a low growl and rubbed my stubble against his cheek, “In a lot of ways,” 

He raised his hands to my chest, settling them over the rise and fall of my breaths, “Tired?”

I was. I was drained. Still shaky, “Not the homecoming I was imagining,” I groaned and let my head fall back with a sigh. 

“What were you imagining?” he moved his hands around to my back, leaning into me, lips finding the soft skin of my neck, kissing softly. It rose goosebumps. 

My eyes shut, leaning my head to the side, “Saw it in a movie once. Hungry Cocks IV?”

“Never saw that one,” his teeth found my earlobe.

“Three was better,” I found the bare skin of his hips under his shirt, letting him support me, letting him kiss the sensitive skin below my ear, enjoying the shiver down my spine, the stirring of my cock, “I gotta say, you’re adjusting to the gayness pretty well.”

He pulled back, pupils dilated, “Well, bisexualness in a homeosexual relationship.”

“To be accurate.”

“And didn’t you mention the years of foreplay?”

“Verbal foreplay.”

He laughed “Mostly,” then shrugged, “It’s not a hard transition for me. I know you and I know your body.”

“Not in the sticky cum, sweaty ass kind of ways.”

“Not those excretions, no,” he searched my face, “But this feels . . . normal, I dunno, we already drive each other crazy, this is just . . .kind of a natural progression.”

He was right. At least here, alone together, we can just be ourselves, as we’ve always been around each other. Apart from the gay part. Which had been mostly under wraps. Mostly. Sort of. To some people’s surprise maybe. My mind wandered briefly to the a pool the nurses started whether or not we’d slept together. Boy would they be thrilled. 

I let my head fall onto his shoulder, letting out a sigh, “My stupid roomate called me a faggot,”

“What?” he rubbed my back, “Who even uses that--what is this a John Hughes movie?”

“I kicked his ass,” I stood up straight, aware my eyes were suddenly feeling very heavy, ““Cuddy wants me in right away tomorrow.”

“What?” his arms dropped, “You’re serious?”

“As bubonic.”

“What is she thinking?”

“Probably a case,”

He exhaled in frustration, “God damn it. I can’t believe it.”

“I’ll be alright,”

“You're going to take it easy!”

“Hey don’t shout at me,”

“Im not, I’m just angry--does she know what you just went through?”

“Best to keep the illusion she has of me being infallible, you think?”

“A half day House,” he was tough Wilson now, “I mean it.”

“You’re so protective.”

“I am,” then after a thought he nodded, “I’m protective of you, I care about you,” he turned his head to the side, “It’s obvious Cuddy doesn’t”

“I’m a valuable piece of horseflesh,” I said, closing my eyes and rubbing my temple. I felt his hand reach for mine.

“Come on.”

I was drained, let him help me to the bedroom, leaning on him down the hallway, “Bad?” he asked.

“Bad.”

He helped me undress, put out a clean pair of boxers and a shirt, went to the kitchen and got me water. Such a sexy nurse maid. I kicked myself only slightly, knowing it was in his nature but wishing I wasn’t broken, at least for this moment.

With the water he had a pill bottle in his hand. From my bag? My heart skipped a beat then he said, “Tyelnol? Really?”

“It’s what they gave me.”

“Might as well take them,” he put them down on my nightstand along with the water as I stepped to the bathroom to brush my teeth. 

From the bedroom I heard, “Uh. I can sleep on the couch if you need the space.”

From the bathroom I spat my toothpaste, “No.”

“Sure?”

“Wilson.”

I remember getting into bed, my head hitting the pillow and I remember Wilson sliding in close to me, one of his hands coming to rest on my chest and my eyes closed.

My alarm clock was broken. The light woke me up. Hadn’t pulled the blinds. I came slowly to awareness, eyes fluttering open, coming into focus. The window was open. Could hear the birds waking up. Mozart? How did they know? I inhaled deeply and felt a weight on my chest. Wilson. His arm was still on me. I turned my head to look at him and couldn't help smiling. His face was tucked into my shoulder. Probably smelled like sweat, his hair was over his eyes. I reached to brush it aside and when I did I felt his legs stretch and feet point to the end of the bed. His eyes opened and came to find mine. He didn’t say anything, just repositioned himself to lie more on my chest with a groan. I lifted my arm so it was around him and let my eyes close again.

He breathed softly and quietly for about ten seconds, then suddenly, “Wait, what time is it?” 

“Sunrise was at . . . 7:02 today?” I was guessing.

“Oh good,” the initial panic was gone and he relaxed again, slightly, “Sleep okay?” he asked groggily.

“I did,” I sighed, “In my own bed,” I let my hand wander over his back, around his side, curious, enjoying the feel of my fingertips tracing patterns over his warm skin. My hand found the curve of his hip and pressed into the hipbone, stretching my fingers as his hips rose in response.

He groaned, stretching in a way that pressed his hips, his hardening cock into my side, “Sorry,” he said quickly, as if he had to apologize, “Morning,” or explain.

I scoffed, “I am a boy you know. I know how it works”

His own hands were intent on moving over my chest, lowering to brush the elastic of my boxers. It had been a long time since anyone had taken real interest in my body. And or had a chance to do anything about it. Reminded me of my own favourite personal theory of why homosapiens evolved to be hairless; because skin on skin felt better and produced more happy brain chemicals, which would encourage bonding/mating, more than fur on fur. 

And we were alone. Not stealing some rushed kiss in the back of a bar. He felt good. My body couldn’t help but react to the small movements of his body next to mine, the feel of his hands over my skin. He was here with me. After all we’d been through, said, done, regretted, he was here. 

He kissed me lightly on my lips, his brown eyes open and starting into mine, then he ran trails of kisses down my cheek, to my neck, where he knew was sensitive.. He shifted so he was slightly on top of me, careful with my leg but sure to rest our hips together. “Is this our first time sleeping together?”

“No,” I thought, hands sliding from his shoulder blades down his back, to his ass, tightening my fingers, “Technically we slept in your car that one time.”

“Oh yeh,” he pushed up my shirt to kiss my chest, slowly moving to a nipple, tongue encouraging the nipple to harden, “We were wearing more clothes then if I remember.”

“Yeh, circumstances were such that I did not have a hard on either,” I raised my hip into his so he could feel it. His breath hitched and eyes closed as we rocked into each other.

He rose from my chest to kiss me deeply again. His tongue slid into my mouth, wet and slow against mine, leaving my mouth to drop open breathlessly. He bit at my lower lip, pressing the weight of his hips into mine in a slow even rhythm, my cock growing harder by the moment as he kissed me. 

He broke the kiss and my eyes fluttered open, feeling the wetness of the precum dripping from my cock against his stomach. This only prompted him to begin kissing my chest, stomach, hip bones, then eased my boxers from my hips, cold air suddenly against my cock. Fingertips traced up my stomach, pushing my shirt up, drawing lazy circles over my skin, making me shudder, biting back a moan as his tongue flicked out at the ticklish spot on the inside of my hip.

No interruptions this time. We’d wasted enough time already. I didn’t want to wait anymore. I wanted him. Wanted him close. Wanted him just for me and no one else. 

“Let me,” he moved to push my boxers all the way down my legs, the covers thrown off us, he sat on his heels a moment, looking me over with a smile, earnest when he said, with a toothy, lopsided smile, “God, you’re beautiful.” 

Whether or not James Wilson had ever sucked another guy's cock ran through my head, wondered if my own cock lived up to what he had imagined, curious about the shape and taste of his own. I sat up quickly to pull his shirt off, marveling briefly at what I’d only dreamed about, no shirt, no tie, and just the right amount of fur. He did the same for me. He shoved me back to the bed and my eyes closed as his hand, then mouth finally met my insistent cock, causing me to gasp and shudder under him. God Wilson. His tongue ran up my shaft, circling the head as I gasped and groaned. Felt so good. I dragged my fingers through his hair as he took all of me in his mouth, my cock engulfed in endless heat and wetness, my hips rising so I thrust deeper into his mouth, couldn’t stop myself. Wilson’s lips, with their perfect pout and lower lip creased right in the middle, a crease I’d tasted with my tongue—he was so perfect, and sweet and lovely I could barely stand it.

“Wilson . . .” his name escaped my lips in a drawn out moan, “Ngh, god . . .”

He squeezed the base of my cock and sucked hard, drew in deep what remained, my eyes snapped open and I stared down at him, glaze-eyed and slack-jawed. Wilson glanced up, mouth stretched and swollen, meeting my eyes as a hum rose in the back of his throat—oh god, it was perfect, so perfect, god I had no idea he could—I’d thought about this, dreamed about it, ached for it—my back arched. Gonna cum. Pumping in and out of his mouth, god, jerking uncontrollably, stiffened and I came hard down his throat, lost, utterly lost.

Gasping for breath I threw my arms over my head. Fuck Wilson. Fuck. And outloud, “Fuck.” 

He seemed pleased. Before laying down next to me he pulled off his own boxers and though I’d not recovered nearly enough, body still twitching, I pushed him down into the mattress, enveloping his mouth in a kiss, enjoying my taste on his lips, setting my body over his. This was for all the shit I’d put him through. All the pain, all the disappointment, all the times he’d had to walk away, all the times we’d kissed and never talked about it again. I wanted him to know how much I’d always wanted him. How much I needed him. His body was both oddly familiar and new, spotting a mole to the left of his right nipple, which I fiercely nipped at, down the dark hair on his belly to his cock. 

“God I’m already so close,” he moaned and when my hand wrapped around him his head rolled back, mouth open. The sound of him, the feel of his thundering pulse around me, the way we moved together, must have been from that same gravitational pull we’d always been caught in. I took him into my mouth and let the wet of my mouth fill in around the salty taste. Gripping him hard I licked my tongue around the head, feeling him shake, drawing him in and out of my mouth, feeling him thrust into me desperately, 

“House, House,” he gasped, his hips jerked, loved how he shuddered, hands gripping my sheets, me, loved the feel of all of him inside me. Mine. I bore down, wanting to draw out every drop, feeling his cock swell, “God, oh god,” his cock exploded, pumping around my lips. I held on long enough to extend the swell, swallowing, then let him go.

We both collapsed next to each other, catching our breath. His head turned and he smiled at me. My brain was alight with oxytocin and dopamine, dripping with pleasure and satisfaction. I’d wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted more now even though we’d just finished. His cheeks and chest flushed, his half lidded eyes, in my bed, spent and dripping with sweat because of me, filled me with actual hope.

I smiled back, brushing a sweaty lock of hair from his face, leaning to kiss his swollen lips, “Ready for work?”

We acted like stupid high school kids. Trying to get ready for the work day after barely managing to get dressed, grabbing at eachothers bodies in the playful curiosity that only the young and stupid uphold. He’d pulled on a shirt, pants, and I’d buried my teeth in his neck, pressing our bodies together, not letting him tuck in his shirt, not wanting the feeling to end. 

He, however, maintained his better judgment and, on his less gimpy legs, made it to the bathroom to wash his face, brush his teeth, and comb his hair and be an altogether responsible cleanly human being. I’d stood behind him and watched us in the mirror. We’d done all these things before, same boring clothes and toothpaste and is-this-yours-or-mine-coffee-mug morning routine, under a completely different context. As just roommates. Hold for the disbelieving eye roll. 

He moved faster than me, obviously, and by the time I’d finished washing the sweat and Wilson juices from my hands he’d made coffee and toast. In the kitchen he was spreading jam on wheat and looking adorable.

“Half day,” he stated, through a mouthful of bread, then his eyes rolled closed, “Mugh! That tastes so good,” eye widened, “Hungry.”

“Not enough jizz this morning?”

“It wasn’t that much,” he jabbed.

I pretended hurt on my face, “It was a geyser.”

“It was plenty,” he chewed, “But still hungry,” not able to hide a smile, cocking his head, “You look incredibly pleased with yourself,”

“Like I said,” I took my own toast and tore it in half with my teeth, “You’re my prize.”

He laughed, “Better than a goldfish.”

I drank some coffee, thinking a moment as he moved around the kitchen. Sex haze aside, it need to be said, “I almost lost you,” he turned, “I don’t want that to happen again,” he put his plate in the sink and came to stand by me, grabbing the ends of the tie around his neck, “I have something to give you. At work,” he raised his eyebrows, “After I check in with Cuddy we’ll meet in your office?”

He nodded, “Sure,” he looked down to his tie, tightening it quickly, “By the way, how do we . . . do this, do we, uh,” his hand went to my chest, over my heart, “Not touch each other at work or,” his hand gripped my shirt, “I don’t know, maybe HR,”

I rolled my eyes, “Not HR,”

“Then what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I leaned forward to kiss him, crumbs on his lip, “I’m not ashamed of this. Don’t need to hide.”

“You’ve  _ never  _ cared what people think.”

“It doesn’t matter what people think. What matters is this,” I put my hand over his heart too, “Let them talk.”

He smiled, looking slightly dubious but exhaled a deep sigh regardless, “House,” he turned his gaze upwards, eyes closing briefly, then back to mine, “I am--”

I stopped him, “Come on, we already sucked eachother off, what more can you say?”

“It’s not just sex, House,”

“I know that,” I said flatly, “I’ve always known that,” I shoved the rest of the toast in my mouth, “Just took you longer to figure it out.”

“Can’t I say--”

“Nope,” I kissed him quickly, turning to the door, “Onward, sweet checks, lives to save.”

I glanced back at him, seeing him slightly stunned and flushed. Perfect. We got in the car and drove to work, radio loud, windows open.

>>>>>

“And on the third day,” I announced, pushing past Cuddy’s office door, “The Lord doth reemerge to saveth all yee souls,” my cane thudded to a stop and she looked up from her desk, barely registering the celestial event.

Instead she focused a studious gaze on my heavenly form and said, “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“No one did,” I answered, “But I’d kept it vague, “and I will return etc, to judge humanity etc, at some point, etc..”

She barely laughed, “You seem back to your old self,” she closed the file she was reading and stood, “I hope you know this is a probationary period, for the sake of the case,” her hands met her hips, “And I can send you right back upstairs.”

“No laurels? A lamb?” she seemed unamused, “Ok. Nothing,” change tactics, “Well, ye of little faith, I am here. Ready to do my job. And yes, I will remain pious-ish.”

“Pious?” she scoffed, then her face softened, “I’m sorry House, this isn’t what I was hoping for.”

“I got out of rehab. Can’t think of a better outcome.”

“I wanted you to have the time you needed.”

“And I got it. I’m good. Better than good.”

She paused long enough to look me over, lips flattening to a line, “You do look good, healthy. Considering.”  
“Yeh considering the hellish detox and threat to never again enjoy shoes with laces; I’m radioactive, but,” I stepped forward, “I know you put yourself on the line to get me out. And that we aren’t, necessarily, in the clear yet so,” I rapped my cane on the ground, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she came around the desk. For a moment she seemed concerned, sincere, confused even hearing me say sorry, the stress wearing on her face, “Here’ the file,” she handed it to me, pausing to meet my eyes, “Your team is waiting for you.”

I nodded, turning to leave.

“House,” she said, making me pause, “Did something. . . ?” she frowned, “You look . . . happy.”

“Something did,” I said at the door, opening it, “There may be a memo later,” I walked away with a smile.

I limped down the hall, to Wilson’s office. No one had laid out palms or anything. I was very disappointed. I didn’t knock, but found him at his desk, scribbling on some paper and drinking more coffee. Out of my mug. 

He looked up as I walked across his office, “See Cuddy?”

“Yeppers,” I made a b-line for him, coming to sit on his desk next to his chair, flashing the file, “Looks like,” scanned it quickly, “Huh, kinda neat actually,” I closed it again, glancing at my watch and putting the file on his desk next to us, “Guys hair fell out. And a finger.”

“We have normal lives,” he said, leaning back.

Seeing him at work, where I’d normally see him, from the other side of the desk, trading jibes and jabs and not bodily fluids, meandering around the details of a case in the most hetersexual way possible, made me want to tear his clothes off. Have him right here on the desk. Or maybe the balcony. Dawn of a new era. It was a satisfying thought. He must have seen the look in my eyes because he gave a quick sideways smile and cleared his throat, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” 

“Stop looking at me like I’m a pork chop.”

“Or what?” I bit my lip and watched his eyes drop down my body, then to the door, readjusting in his chair.

“Or you’d have to lock the door.”

“Would rather not,” I said, then took a breath, “First things first though.”

He refocused, “Right, you had, something to give me?”

I reached in my pocket. Pulled out the pill bottle. The one the less than moral and virtuous nurse had given me. His eyes widened, brow knitted, and he looked like I’d just stabbed him through the heart.

“I paid someone to get me these while I was in rehab.”

“House,” he shook his head, looking down to his desk.

“I didn’t take any of them.”

He looked up, “What?”

“I meant to. Was going to. But didn’t. Not after . . .” I set the bottle on his desk, “Not after I saw you,” I rubbed at my scruff, staring at the bottle, then him, “I want to clean out the infection before I suture.” 

He seemed speechless. Mostly because he wasn’t speaking. He shrugged both his shoulders, face contorting quickly with emotion, then he took a breath, “This might be better than the blowjob.”

“I’ll have to try harder next time.”

He stood up and moved to lean between my legs, “I mean it. This is . . . a lot,” he put his hands on my hip, running his hand around to my back, eyes wide with disbelief. Which is what I’d hope. Needed to show him I was serious. We both knew where the pills would end. Where they had almost ended. What future they could offer me and what future there was for us.

“Do what you want with them. I’m thinking of trying out for the hospital water polo team. And by that I mean water physio.”

He laughed, “You’re incredible.”

“Well I deserve some credit,” I said, dropping my cane and pulling him into me. I kissed him, feeling him melt into me, squeezing my thighs around him. He raised his hands to my face and pulled me close, tasting like coffee and sugar. He reached his hand down to the front of my jeans, tongue sliding into my mouth as I grabbed his ass.

“Welcome back!!!!” 

Right on time. Thanks Cameron. I wasn’t facing the door but heard all three duckling’s mouths drop open. Wilson jerked backward but I locked him in with my legs, twisting to see Cameron, Chase, and Forman in the doorway of his office. Cameron actually had balloons. 

“Oh my god!” I said, “For me?”

Cameron had a hand to her mouth, the balloons went to the ceiling. Chase’s mouth was still open. Forman was shaking his head. 

Wilson shot a shocked look at me, “Did you?”

I nodded, “I did. No hiding,” I let him go, standing and grabbing his hand and turning to look at the team.

“Is there cake?”

****Beep, beep, beep, boop, beep, flash! I must say that under no circumstance would I consider outing someone else acceptable, it is a personal choice for when you are ready. Do I beleive that House would do this to Wilson? Yes. Do I think it's right? No. But, regardless, it made sense to me, tell me if it doesn't to you, with the characters. I mean no offense, believe me, as part of the LGBT community myself, I understand the significance, so please, be understanding. Also since going back and finishing my fics I've been giving them happy, everything is great endings. I have no problem with this, I want them to be happy, but it is interesting . . . Bye bye and buy bonds;)


End file.
